A deviled egg? No, you good.

The peripatetic pane of the pilgrim fly
with its thrilling vertigo so perfectly wry-
the kaleidoscope tumble of a glassy thrill
through a white-hot vitreous bethel spills:

the baize purchase of idols periwinkle diffused,
by a thunderous crack decayed and bemused.

Is it better to have too many gods than not enough?

Mrs. Porter could not keep pace
with the scrofulous scribe in yellow-face.

The green rock gnaws the lichen's spectral white,
eagerly mocks the saplings wind blown quiver-
their kind has come in earnest and gone to flight,
blessed by the driving rust of rain's damp sliver.

Mrs. Porter could not keep pace
with the scrofulous wag in yellow-face.

To carry a demon ovum through the boiling dawn
with a tattersall shirt and brown oxfords on,
in indifferent forms with an indifferent clock
waiting for the chattering of monkeys to stop:

it must be bronzed sorely on perilous faith,
that these are the jokes of a fickle wraith.

Mrs. Porter could not keep pace
with the scrofulous fool in yellow-face.